The Breton
by The Breton
Summary: The Breton, a resident of Wayrest, High Rock, is told by a note to leave the town and head East. First, he must get out of the city.
1. Chapter 1: Wayrest

He turned over the small chunk of ebony in his hands, examining every inch of its surface for something, anything, that would make it worth keeping around. It was an amulet of Zenithar, crafted by his father, a local Breton, of what he claimed to be 'Raven Rock's last and finest piece of unrefined ebony.'

He would always claim that with a chuckle. The Breton would miss that.

His father was not, to say, dead, it was just that the Breton did not quite know where he was. Two weeks before, he had come home to a note stabbed to the inside of the door with a fork. The note had instructed him on the location of ten thousand septims hidden beneath the floor, as well as vaguely stating to 'take all you hold close.'

Unfortunately to him, at the bottom of the letter, there was a clause stating to give the house, and all its furnishings to the most worthy beggar of Wayrest. Upon reading this, the Breton scoffed. He and his father did not live in a noble way, however they had always done well for themselves, and to throw that away for some beggar? Ridiculous. He was angry with his father. Did he not even trust him enough to convey these instructions in person? What could be so important as to leave in the middle of a working day, when he should have been at his anvil...

The Breton shook his head, pocketing the amulet, if only because it was his father's. He didn't need the pity of some righteous 'god' where he was going. The instructions stated only to 'go east, but not beyond the western border of Morrowind' and to 'find Naalia Aretino.' Overall the Breton had no idea where to go. He'd never been farther from home than the ruins and small towns of Orsinium. He decided he'd buy a map and a compass, when he got into the market.

Walking out of his old house, carrying the key and deed, he wasn't even sure he could bring himself to give it away. He was quite perturbed to be dressed like this, in the rags of a poor man, forced to keep his head down so nobody would recognise him. When he approached the first beggar he saw, the man smiled, assuming another beggar was in front of him.

'G'day, fel-'

The Breton cut him off. 'See that house up there?' He pointed roughly behind himself in the general direction of his house.

'Well...' Sputtered the beggar. 'Yes, I'll be supposin' I-'

'Take these.' He shoved the deed in the man's hand and tossed his keys a bit heavily at the man. 'Go find a quill and sign that. It's yours now.' He looked at the man's rough appearance. 'You can write, can't you?'

The beggars eyes shifted, clearly overwhelmed. 'Well, no sir, I-'

'Then go learn how. Better do it quickly. The guard may think you stole that.' Nodding toward the scroll of parchment now in the beggars hand. 'And one last thing. I need your hat.'

'Oh, yes, sir!' He took off his hat quickly with his free hand, shoving it a bit too eagerly at the Breton. 'The eight divines bless you!'

Scoffing, the Breton simply walked away, looking down, and quickly putting the beggars hat on. It smelled of soggy linen and eggs. At least the man wasn't a drunkard.

As it began to rain, he was still walking down the path to Wayrest. The snow was becoming hardened from the extra moisture, and there was a telltale crunch with each step he took on the cold path. He had lived near the cold all his life, but he was no Nord, and these footwraps were getting ridiculous...

As he approached the western gate of the city, he was able to make out a shiny figure, taller than average, and with his arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow. His father had always told him to avoid a Thalmor if he came across one, but he was fairly certain that they did not make a habit of frequenting High Rock. pulling his hat down to cover a bit more of his face, he carried on the path. They had already made notice of him, and one of the Imperial guards was pointing at him as he talked to his Thalmor companion. As the Breton approached the gate, he tried to walk past them without acknowledgement or greeting. He was met with two Imperial soldiers crossing their spears across the gate. Deciding it would be best to try and leave without incident, he turned around only to find himself staring at the Thalmor right at the bottom of her neck.

'I'm sorry, beggar, but even..' She took a short pause. 'peasants, like you must be inspected. Order of the Dominion.

This confused the Breton. Since when did the Aldmeri have power in High Rock..? He exhaled slowly before responding. 'Of course, Lady Elf... search away.'

She began to wave her hand over him, closing her eyes. After a few moments, she opened them, reaching into his rags and pulling out one of his pouches of coins. 'Do we have a beggar here, or a thief?' She scoffed, and poured some of the coins into her hand. Pocketing the rest of the coins, she waved her hand off toward the city. The Breton exhaled softly with relief. He was being waved through. 'Take this one to a cell. I want him locked up.'

The guard who stood next to her took the Breton's arm, beginning to pull him roughly into the town. Stumbling beside him, the Breton dragged his feet, trying to delay the journey as much as possible. His dagger, however, was on his left side, the same side the guard was holding him on, and he was unable to reach it with his right hand without making it obvious. Besides, a crowd was amassing to see the beggar off to jail.

'Move on, shove off!' Shouted the guard, practically dragging the Breton at this point. The guard looked to be more of a Nord than a Breton.

Arriving at the door to the jail, the Breton was tossed in hard on the ground before the guard entered and slammed the door shut behind him with a bang. Looking around the room, the Breton had stars in his eyes but could also manage to see the room was filled with a half dozen Nords, all dressed in varying clothing, but each with the symbol of Talos, the ninth and banned divine, strung around their necks.

The large guard who had just thrown him to the floor was now offering the Breton his hand. Looking at it for a moment, he took it, being pulled to his feet much more gently than he was dragged through the town.

'You need to leave. Now. If the pointy eared bitch gets wind of this..' He tailed off, but started right back up. It looks like you have enough money for a carriage out of here. I know thieves. But you? No. You just need to get out of here. Get to Evermor And one more thing. If you leave now it'll be a three day ride. On the fourth day, when the sun is highest. Throw a few of those septims into the air in the central plaza. Repayment for your freedom.'

The Breton nodded in agreement, and he meant it, too. He nodded to the group of Nords sitting in the far end of the room, then to the large Nord Imperial guard who had saved him, before walking toward the front door.

'And just where do you think you're going?' Yelled one of the Nords in the back. 'They all just saw you come in through there, you think going out is a good idea?' He gestured toward a door in the back. 'Go out there, then away to next door. An inn there. Get a drink. Then across the square is a carriage man, he'll take you anywhere in High Rock for some gold...' The man trailed off for a moment. 'You need to hurry on now, or you'll not get to Evermor in time, run along.' He waved his arm impatiently.

Being shoved toward the door not so gently by the guard, who was clearly getting impatient, the Breton walked to the back door and swiftly opened it and exited in one movement. As he left he could hear the voice of the second Nord through the door.

'Can the poor bastard even talk..?'

In between the door of the jail and the inn next door there was a small aspen planted behind a short wooden fence. The fence, the Breton supposed, was to discourage people from using the back doors to the inn and jail. walking steadily along the gap-it was much wider than the Nord had implied-he arrived at the inn, happily finding the door unlocked, and taking a step inside.

Instantly he was reminded with why he hated inns. The stench of the ruckus inside was nearly unbearable, and his ears were assaulted by sounds of horrid bard tunes, clinking steins, and the laughter of dozens of drunken imbeciles. Taking a few steps further in, looking around almost frantically for the front door, the poorly-kept floor was creaking nearly with every step he took, and he swore he could feel several splinters, even with his numbed feet. As he kept walking, a Breton with shallow, darkened eyes pushed in front of him and tried to shove a bottle of Skooma on him, at the same time begging for twenty-five septims. Pushing the disgusting man aside with his arm, the Breton continued on to the door, which he had just spotted, nearly tripping over a drunken man, who was lying on the ground getting sick. As he finally got to the door, he turned the handle, and, opening the door, was refreshed with a face full of brisk Wayrest air. It smelled strongly of sewage.

The Breton muttered to himself something about why he hated the city as he walked across the plaza, keeping his head turned slightly down, but scanning the area for any carriage man as the Nord had spoken of. As he made it to the other side, he caught sight of the man the Nord must have referred to a bit further down the plaza. He decided to walk on the wooden path in front of the buildings, as opposed to the slightly wet, cold ground. As he approached, the man seated on the front seat of his coach, an Imperial, turned to him.

'Need to go somewhere fast? I can go anywhere at a moment's notice.' he looked at the Breton's clothing inquisitively. 'That is, if you can afford.. one hundred septims?'

'I need to get to Evermor, and I need to leave now.' Said the Breton in the lowest voice he could. He then pulled out two pouches of coins from his rags, tossing them up onto the seat beside the man, then pulling himself up into the cart on the back, setting his back up against a sack of.. something. 'Let's be off, then, must make good time.'

The driver was taken aback. 'Well.. alright, fellow, let's be off.' He grabbed his switch, cracking it for the horses to get moving. 'Ever been to Evermor?' He asked.

'No... Can't say I have.' replied the Breton, wishing the man would just shut up.

'Well, Evermor is one of the largest cities in High Rock.' The driver started. 'After Daggerfall and Wayrest, of course.' He paused. 'Are you from around here?' He had turned around slightly to look at the Breton.

'You could say that.' He wasn't trying to be outwardly rude, just antisocial enough to make the driver be quiet.

'I'm from Northpoint originally, myself...' The driver had trailed off, somewhat taking the hint. 'There once was a hero named Ragnar the Red..'

The Breton sighed. It looked like this would be a sing-along trip. He shifted his body to adjust to the hard bottomed cart, still using the sack as if it were a pillow. What was he doing here? He had no idea where to go, his bearing was just a province... He shoved away his negative thoughts. His father had always said he was too negative. And he trusted his father. Pulling out his father's ebony amulet, he rubbed it between his fingers. His father would not let him down. He would find Naalia Aretino and find out what was going on. He just had to get to Evermor first... That would be the first step. He shut his eyes. While he was below average for a Breton at magic, he managed to put himself in a semi-concious state to regain his energy. He had no idea what was ahead of him, but he felt he needed to be ready.


	2. Chapter X (Non-sequential, yet)

He felt a bump in the road, shaking the carriage and waking him. Shaking his head slightly in an effort to alleviate the sharp pain in his temple, his eyes flickered open to a less-than-comforting view of his own hands crossed and bound tightly.

'You, finally awake.'

He looked up to see a blonde Nord with a single braid on the left of his face.

'You tried to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial Ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.'

The man nodded to his left, indicating the second of the three men in the cart, another Nord, though this one rather scraggly in appearance, his tan rags distinguishing him from the first man, who was wearing slightly rusted chain mail armour beneath his bluish cloak and padded leather cuirass.

The second man simply scowled at the first. 'Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine, until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy.' He shook his head slightly, diverting his eyes to the bottom of the cart. 'If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.' He glanced up to the Breton. 'You there, you and me. We shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.'

'We're all brothers and sisters in binds, now.' The first man stated complacently.

The cart was shaken by another bump, and the driver looked back irritably. 'Shut up back there!'

The four sat in silence for a few moments, only the trotting of the horses and the carts' wheels were heard. The dark-haired Nord nodded to the fourth man, gagged, but dressed in a noble's clothing. 'What's wrong with him, huh?'

The first man furrowed his eyebrows, turning his head in obvious annoyance. 'Watch your tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.'

'Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you...' The man paused a moment, shaking his head. 'Oh gods, where are the taking us?'

'I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits.'

'No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening...'

The cart grew quiet, for a while. The Breton's head was throbbing, and he drifted back to sleep. He wasn't gone for too long, perhaps an hour, when the man in the chain mail armour spoke up, interrupting his rest. 'Hey, what village are you from?'

Looking back up from the floor of the cart, the second man sighed. 'Why do you care?'

'A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.'

'Rorikstead... I'm... I'm from Rorikstead.'

Turning the corner, the carts made their final descent down a narrow dirt path. Looking to his left, the Breton saw a walled town, presumably their destination. At least a dozen archers lined the walls, and he could see just to the right of the gatehouse a large stone building that he assumed to be the keep. He looked down, closing his eyes, thinking of his mother, of his dog, the last small reminders of home..

'General Tullius, Sir, the Headsman is waiting!'

The Breton brought his head up, took a breath, and opened his eyes.

'Good let's get this over with.'

The second man, the Breton assumed, was General Tullius. While no expert on Imperial politics, he was certain he'd heard the name before... The dark-haired Nord, however, was not so calm in accepting this all.

'Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh.. Divines... Please help me...'

The Breton restrained himself from kicking the man. This was no time to bring up that 'divine' nonsense. This was an execution, and they may as well go through with it in honour. He blinked as they pulled out from under the gatehouse; there was no shade in the town square. The Breton felt very exposed.

'Look at him...' The blonde man said. 'General Tullius, the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves.. I bet they had something to do with this.'

Looking over at the man's scowling face, then to General Tullius, the Breton had a moment of revelation. This was the man he had heard about, the one who was sent to reunite the Nords and end the rebellion. Ironic, being in custody of the Empire, when his father had been an Imperial mage for years..

'This is Helgen.' Continued the blonde man. 'I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries in it..' He took a breath. 'Funny... When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.'

The Breton nodded to this, unsure of just how to respond to the man. He seemed to be a real person, not at all like the images of Nord rebels he had heard of in High Rock. He shrugged it off, his head too sore to consider at the moment.

'Who are they, daddy, where are they going?'

A small boy, not even to his adolescence, was sitting on the steps of a building, watching the carts roll by.

'You need to go inside, little cub.'

'Why? I want to watch the soldiers!'

'Inside the house, now.'

'Yes, papa...'

In spite of the situation, the Breton cracked a smile. The boy had made him remember his own childhood, not knowing the ins and outs of the world, thinking everything was friendly, and good. Poor kid probably had never been allowed to see an execution before... Executions... That brought him back into reality.

'Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!'

The dark man looked up. 'Why are we stopping?'

'Why do you think?' replied the Stormcloak. 'End of the line.'

Just as the cart pulled into the spot, an Imperial soldier pulled down the back, motioning toward the four of them to get off.

'Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.'

Exiting the cart, the thief looked around nervously, looking for anything to help him away from there. 'No, wait! We're not rebels!' He pleaded

Sighing, the blonde man turned his head to face him. 'Face your death with some courage, thief.'

'You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!'

The same woman who had ordered them removed from the carts, dressed in metal-studded Imperial armour, was now standing right next to a clearly inferior officer who was holding a ledger. She yelled with a loud, seemingly confident voice, but the Breton could spot several signs of nerves and hesitation. 'Step towards the block when we call your name! One at a time.'

'Ugh...' Sighed the Stormcloak. 'Empire loves their damn lists.

It was now the ledger-man's turn to glance nervously at the cross-armed assembly of elves behind General Tullius, clear his throat, and continue.

'Ulfric Stormcloak... Jarl of Windhelm.'

As ulfric stepped forward, the blonde Nord, as well as several like-dressed men from the other cart, nodded to him in respect. 'It's been an honour, Jarl Ulfric.'

The soldier with the ledger widened his eyes at the next name, seemingly uncomfortable at its presence on the list. 'Ah.. Ralof, of Riverwood.'

The blonde Nord, Ralof, took two steps toward the man, nodded toward him, and moved where the Jarl had gone, toward the block. Having regained his composure now, after the seemingly painful silence that had followed Ralof's name, he again cleared his throat and proceeded with the list.

'Lokir, of Rorikstead.'

'No!' Lokir cried out. 'I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!'

With that, he began to run as fast as he can with his hands tied, toward the gatehouse of this city, Helgen. 'Halt!' Yelled the captain in charge.

'You're not going to kill me!' Lokir shouted in despair.

'Archers!' An archer raised his bow, and shot at the fleeing prisoner, hitting him directly in his lower back, causing him to fall to the ground, crying out in pain.

The captain shook her head, her face turning red from embarrassment and anger. 'Anyone else feel like running?'

After taking a deep breath, with one more look at the General, the soldier with the list turned toward the Breton. Wait, you... Step forward. Who are you?'


	3. Chapter 3x

-incomplete


End file.
